Prickly Pear
by Cheshire
Summary: Drabble series set after "Lucifer Rising." DeanXCastiel, LuciferXCastiel, AlastairXDean, AnnaXSam.
1. 21: Who Feel and Know Castiel

Who Feel and Know

Prompt #21: Sagittipotent

Rating: PG-13

Castiel retained, maybe not enough of his Grace to sense them, but enough of his knowledge to realize that these people--these bodies parading towards him, surrounding him--were demons. The way they moved, ever circling, the flashes of something _other_ in their eyes (they'd be black, if he could still see _them_, if his eyes weren't stuck on the physical plain), confirmed it.

He didn't think they knew what he was, though the cloying, smoky smell of a battle between celestials was surely still painting his skin. They'd know him for being angel-tainted, if nothing else. Perhaps they would figure him for an empty vessel, abandoned in a fight gone sour.

"You look lost," one of them said, casually, and another picked up that thread, "Are you lost, little lamb? Do you need our...guidance?"

How, he wondered, not for the first time, were humans ever convinced these sorts were their own? The lowest level demons, those with their youth reflected in their black eyes and their weak abilities, never seemed human to Castiel, even when he had only the vaguest sense of what "human" meant.

At some point, facing them, he wondered if human emotions would come as easily as mortal pain had. For now his face was settled in a stern expression, just a shade away from hostile. He had no desire to provoke them, more than they naturally would be.

"I'm not lost."

One laughed, mocking him, maybe thinking he had gone stoic through fear. Then another was grabbing him from behind, wrapping her arms across his torso. He had overlooked how much stronger they would be, now. He was held still as she sniffed at his neck, breathing him in.

"You smell of innocence, little lamb. How did such a pretty human stay so pure?"

The first one to talk had moved, fast, until he was pressed against Castiel. The body the demon was in was noticeably aroused, prodding against the hollow of Castiel's hip. Turned on, he decided, by the idea of corrupting him. The demon's lips hovered over his, eyes glinting sharp. Hands moved over his stomach, his waist, nails seemingly too sharp for human hands digging into his flesh. Castiel wondered if they'd be able to taste his true self in his body's blood.

He shifted, analyzing the demons before him, knowing he could not get away, but deciding he had to try. He kicked forward into the crotch of the one in front of him, then slammed his head back into the female behind him. They went down, too surprised to process what had just happened. Then they were on him. He lost count of the number of demons gripping some part of his body, bruising and tearing in their rage.

It _hurt_. It hurt like waking up at Chuck's, feeling his spirit want to give out even if his body was still in fine shape. He wondered if he could die, if he were truly mortal. Then he wondered where he'd go.

A crackling noise came to him from afar, just before the demons tumbled off of him, going down to their knees on the crumbling cement. Castiel picked up the smell of ozone, the way the ground seemed to tremble in time with the terrified demons. He swallowed through a mouth gone dry, bringing his eyes to the figure walking towards him.

At first he didn't know who it was, fighting to gain the double vision that would allow him to see the spirit within the body (the demon, he knew, it had to be a demon). When the eyes flashed gold he felt like he was falling midflight. A fallen angel, turned demon, walking towards him--he would not get so lucky with this one, it would not mistake him for a human, even with his Grace in ashes.

The figure, a strongly built young female, watched him. The golden eyes glowed in the dimming light from above, roving over his body, through him and into him, picking at the cracks left in his spiritual walls.

With a wave of her hand, the other demons dispersed, hissing in displeasure, but just intelligent enough to know they couldn't take her on.

"Cassiel," she murmured, "Kafziel, Macoton." He winced at the old names, the ones unspoken in Heaven.

"Castiel," he corrected, after a long pause. "It's Castiel, now, fallen one."

She smirked as she continued her steady pace towards him, stopping just before her feet would touch his legs. "Look at what they have done to you, brother. Look at what you have done to yourself."

He didn't move when she crouched beside him, refusing to show the stirrings of fear. This emotion he was familiar with, even as an angel. Fear was ever present in Heaven, at least after Lucifer's corruption. "Perhaps this is why we could not locate you these long, lonely millennia."

"There's no reason that you should have attempted to do so."

She raised her eyebrows. "Did you think **he** would abandon you to them if **he** had--"

"I don't care what **he** desired. If I had wished to fall I would have done so with **him**, with all of you."

She let out a soft growl. Perhaps, Castiel thought, the others had truly not considered that. Had they searched for him long? Had they called upon him with his former sigil and despaired when they didn't receive even a hint of his Presence? Had **he** thought Castiel dead or chained in some lost corner of Heaven? Of course, in a way, both of those were true.

Castiel took a deep breath, amazed at how much such an act could center him, then sat up. "You know my names, but I do not know yours."

With that, she grinned, as if he were accepting something offered. "I am Paimon, brother."

Then "she" was a "he," Castiel realized, fighting the Dean-influenced urge to roll his eyes. Paimon had taken perverse pleasure in mixing with gender and sex since God created Adam. It had caught Lucifer's attention while they were still in Heaven, had been just perverse enough to bring Paimon into his group of confidantes--angels, after all, were not supposed to care so much for appearance.

He had known it would be one of _them_, one of the ones he had once called "friend," but he could think of a half dozen others whose motives would be clearer. Castiel couldn't trust Paimon, because Castiel could never trust Paimon.

"Glum _now_, Cassiel? Would you rather I was Meresin? Or Belial? Or, hm, you were always close to Mephistopheles....Or, is it that you feel neglected? Did you think **he** would come for you, brother? Did you want to bask in his dark glory and genuflect, finally, to your true Master?"

Castiel winced, assuring himself that not even in the darkest parts of himself did he desire such a thing. "We were never close, Paimon. We were competition, if anything."

Paimon smirked, moving his host through expressions with admirable ease--demons had always been so much better with body language. "Maybe we were frenemies, Cassiel. That would have been fun." He leaned in, body breathing in the air that Castiel exhaled. "You weren't my competition, though."

"Wasn't I?"

"No. You were always **his** number one. I was just fighting to win second place."

Fighting an unexplainable wave of dizziness Castiel stood. "I have to go."

"So soon?"

Castiel stopped, cocking his head to the side. "Is this where you explain that I owe you, now?"

But Paimon was frowning at him, studying his face as if he could still see beyond it to the blackened angel underneath. "This is where I help you track down those lovely little Winchesters of yours." He held up a hand to stop Castiel's knee jerk questions. "I'm kinda fond of this world, brother, of these humans. They're no fun if they're enslaved, if they know we exist and don't have that shrinking disbelief even as we possess them."

It was almost too easy, Castiel thought, to believe Paimon. All the more reason to continue in distrust.


	2. 12: Promises and Lies

Promises and Lies

12: Woundikins

Rating: PG-13

**His** return to power was not without its difficulties. It seemed as though, in the vast eons and mere second **he** was gone, those who should have been loyal, those who clawed their way into **his** hierarchy and fought tooth and nail against **his** enemies, had forgotten **him**. It was easier for them to think only of themselves, not of their **lord**, their **master** in all things.

Those loyal to **him** had risked much to release **him**: **His** dear Azazel, who fought beside **him** against Heaven and their former brothers, who descended into the Pit with **him** without regrets. **His** lovely Lilith, the first of the humans **he** twisted into something _more_.

**He** did not mourn, for **he** knew not how. Instead **he** gathered the dust of their spirits to **him**, and the others who had served them well, and breathed the chaos of existence back into them. **His** enemies had long since lost the ability to create life and, therefore, it had become **his** domain.

**He**, backed by those that had been gone, bellowed into Hell for there to be darkness and the fires of Hell extinguished.

In the deepest black the denizens of **his** kingdom crawled to **him**. They exulted, they cowered, they obeyed. **He** swept through their most hidden thoughts and yearnings, snuffing out those demons **he** found unsatisfying as surely as **he** had the flames.

The energy of Hell fed **him**, strengthened **him**. **He** no longer suffered from the weakness of **his** prison, was capable of more than simple threads of influence and corruption. **He** released into the worlds **his** will and felt it echoing back through violence, through destruction, as the humans took **him** into themselves.

As the last of **his** legions flitted by, Lilith and Azazel came to **him**, lesser demons scurrying behind, awed by the greatness they witnessed. The two bowed and **he** smiled, Hell and Earth both quaking with **his** pleasure.

"My **Lord**," she murmured in one of the old tongues, in the first language gifted to humans. "**You** are among us and our Enemy is without a leader. **You** can have your revenge, **you** can have everything."

"**Father**," Azazel hissed in a language older even than they, which only angelic tongues could carry. "Our Enemy is fractured and weakened. **You** can take your proper place, **you** can have everything."

"Everything," **he** decided. And the hellfires blazed high once more, ignited by **his** pleasure. "**I** shall have it all, my children, and **we** shall know joy once more."


	3. 20: Things Said and Done

Things Said and Done

20: Lubency

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Castiel has always loved too greatly.

Castiel tried not to make a noise as he clutched his head. Pain was a familiar companion, now, but the headaches were incapacitating. All he had to offer Dean was his knowledge, but he felt as though it was sloughing from him, his brains melting through his ears in a steady stream.

Someone thrust a pill between his lips, then pressed a bottle--water--after them. He swallowed even as he felt as if it would all come back up. After it had fully settled within him, he opened his eyes, staring into Sam's. The concern was breathtaking, reminding Castiel of the brilliant torn pieces of innocence scarring Sam's soul in an attempt to stay attached, despite demon blood and human hatred. He wishes he could still see that ruined soul, make out what pieces had gone and which were left behind.

"Thank you," he croaked, caught off guard by the beatific smile Sam returned, as if a thank you was a gift beyond Grace itself.

A hand settled on his shoulder and Castiel needed neither angelic nor human senses to know that Dean had returned. The way Sam's eyes lit up even more matched the soaring feeling in Castiel's heart, for they were both waiting for the moment Dean realized they were a burden. But it wasn't today, because he directed Sam to the bags of takeout and kneaded gently at Castiel's neck, fighting against the pain.

"I know what it is," Castiel said after a few minutes of enjoying Dean's firm hands through the pressure in his skull. "Do you remember when I first tried to speak to you? This is much the same. I have the ability to hear my brothers, but not the power to withstand such an act."

Dean came around Castiel's chair in order to meet his eyes. "Is someone trying to contact you?"

"Or I'm simply overhearing the conversations of others, unable to interpret them through the pain." Dean's eyes narrowed, but he said no more. They both took the food Sam handed to them and ate in silence.

***

The next day was better. Dean drove them to another motel in another town and they ate sandwiches and pie in another diner. Without his Grace, Castiel needed food to support his Vessel, but he could not fully appreciate it. While many of the tastes were fascinating, the textures were off-putting. He ate everything set before him, however, because it pleased Dean, and Dean needed more small pleasures in his life.

Perhaps that is why Castiel stayed behind with Dean while Sam went looking through antique stores and the local library for books that might be hidden within. Castiel shared the time watching television and translating glyphs, eyes tracking Dean's movements, wishing he could see into his mind.

He had yet to have a migraine. He was not sure if it was a sign of improvement, a further step toward being human, or if the anti-angel symbols they had drawn along the walls in chalk and cow's blood (Dean grabbing Castiel's hand as it went for the knife, eyes bold and dark, reminding him of what humans couldn't do) were working.

"When I was first created," he began into the relative silence, then paused as he tried to work his thoughts into English, "I knew nothing but joy, for I had not only His love, but the love of His favorite." Dean had stopped flipping through channels and focused on Castiel with the intensity of someone truly interested in what was being said. "I was too naïve to know that not all love is good, even when only a degree removed from the Father."

Castiel shifted, moving his eyes off of Dean and to the checkered cloth of the bedspread they both sat on. "When Lucifer fell, I betrayed both sides. I was stripped of my proper name, my rightful power, demoted to a lowly soldier in a minor garrison. And I was happy, because it was His will, because I had unintentionally backed myself into a position where a loyalty I should always have was in question. I did not allow anymore questions into my life. Not until I met you."

"Cas."

He held up his hand, interrupting Dean without looking at him. "I am not telling you this to hurt you, Dean. You're blameless in all of this. I am telling you these things to prove that...as much as I tried, I could never fit in with my brothers, not with _any_ of my brothers."

He looked at Dean, now, at the beautiful, wretched mortality of him: the blinking of his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest. Castiel reached across the bed and rested a hand on Dean's neck, feeling the pulse jumping under his fingers. "I am alone among angels, Dean, because we are without souls, without will, without emotion, and yet the only thing I have ever truly known is how to deeply, eternally love."

Castiel didn't have to move again, because Dean was doing it. He rose above him, pushing Castiel back then settling the warm bulk of his body down. Their lips met and Castiel thought of Anna, but pushed it away--he was giving this moment in time to Dean, he would not allow any others to distract him.

***

When Sam came back, Dean and Castiel were under the covers, prickling with cooling sweat. They were asleep, so Sam closed the door with more care than he'd opened it. Moving through the room, he picked up the books and paper that had fallen from their bed, turned off the tv, then made his way to the bathroom in order to wash off the dust he had collected.

As he closed the door, he stared at the mirror, the reflection of the two--Castiel's head resting over Dean's heart, Dean's hand curled into Castiel's hair, fingers gripping with a protective, possessive gesture that Sam knew well--made him feel rejuvenated. This was the first sign he'd had in a long time that maybe, just maybe, they could start to hope for something more.


End file.
